


A gift for a demon

by Moloko_and_cookies



Series: Ineffable [6]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 19th Century, Crowley's Century-Long Nap (Good Omens), Fluff, Letter, M/M, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:55:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27583702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moloko_and_cookies/pseuds/Moloko_and_cookies
Summary: When Crowley wakes up from his century-long nap, he sees that he has received a lot of mail. Among all the letters, one stands out.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffable [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1414450
Comments: 2
Kudos: 30





	A gift for a demon

Long naps must have been created by some demon with a very wicked sense of humour. At first, they seem a good idea, especially when there is nothing better to do or when you are too bored, or angry, or sad, or tired… or everything at the same time. However, when you wake up you are even more tired, and sleepy, and your skin is sticky but your tongue has become a very thick piece of sandpaper and your eyes are just as dry and oh, the light… the light! Not to talk about the noises… Perhaps you could go to sleep again until the migraine fades away, or until it finally makes your brain explode, which seems to be going to happen in the next few minutes if the stray cat that lives around the corner doesn’t stop meowing. There’s a second option, which consists of having a brief fight against your bed covers, which are now glued to your skin and tied to your limbs, drag yourself to the bath and let the water wash away the sweat, the dizziness, the bad temper, and the headache.

After pondering for a good ten minutes, Crowley chose the last option. He had no idea how much time he had been sleeping, but judging by the rust that had accumulated on the surface of the bath and the layer of dust that made him look like he had fluffy grey hair, a few decades. Of course, this was not a big deal for a demon; two seconds later everything in the house was clean and shiny. And probably outdated, Crowley thought, but he would deal with that later, once his mind was clear enough to catch up on the latest trends in fashion and interior design.

A couple of hours later –after an undetermined amount of decades of sound sleep, you need your time to readjust to reality- Crowley was ready to come out to the streets of London again. However, a little mountain of unopen mail that had accumulated over the years blocked his way to the door. Well, at least he would know what year it was. Reluctantly, Crowley went through the envelopes, selecting those that were worth reading. Some of the envelopes had become yellow, but the most recent ones had to be only a few days old. He was in the last days of 1895, apparently.

He discarded those letters that had to do with human stuff –just a few- and left the ones that came from Hell in another mountain –tidier than the original one, and carefully placed on a table- to read them later, not because he had a real interest on what they said, but because he wanted to know which atrocities committed by humans had been attributed to him.

The last envelope, one that had not even started to become yellow yet, was not like the rest. It was bigger and a bit heavier, meaning that it contained something more than a regular letter. A floral perfume, like orange blossom and jasmine, with a hint of something sweet, emanated from the paper. Crowley did not need to look at the part where the sender had written his name and address in neat handwriting to know where the parcel came from. He opened it with care, almost with reverence, and let its contents fall on his lap: a letter and a book wrapped in tissue paper.

_My dearest Crowley,_

_It’s been a long time since the last time I heard from you. I hope you are doing well. I am still living in Soho, in my bookshop. If you ever come back to London, I would be delighted to have you as my guest and have dinner together again if you want. I know that it is quite irregular for me to write to you, but I’ve been missing our little conversations lately._

_Humans celebrate the birth of Jesus in these days, although you know as well as I do that the date is incorrect and they are actually celebrating the winter solstice. However, I quite like this custom they have of giving each other gifts, so I send you a little one with this letter. It is something that I just read and reminded me of you. I thought that you would find it funny, so I decided to send you a copy. Please, let me know if you liked it. I will be very happy to receive a response from you, my dear friend._

_Affectionately,_

_Aziraphale_

PS: Don’t worry, I sent this via miracle so neither of our sides would intercept it. Also, I don’t know where you are at the moment, so it was easier to just wish it to arrive wherever you are.

A warm smile started to grow on the demon’s face as he read the letter. Obviously, he would never let anyone see it –perhaps only one person, the one who had caused it- and he would deny that he was able to feel, let alone show, such a soft emotion as he was feeling in that moment. Demons do not feel _that;_ they are simply incapable. Or at least that was what most of them thought, although Crowley knew that it was not true, at least for him. At first, he had blamed Aziraphale’s influence -which had something to do, for other reasons-, but finally, the demon had come to the realisation that perhaps not all of the angelic traits had disappeared from him after the Fall, and he had accepted it as a part of him, although he preferred to keep it secret. Just for precaution.

With the same reverence with which he had open and read the letter, Crowley unwrapped the gift. It was not very big and all the pages were beautifully illustrated by the author. The demon understood very quickly why Aziraphale had thought about him: the book was full of scenes representing angels and demons. But he also blushed –for the first time in centuries- when he read the title: _The Marriage of Heaven and Hell,_ by William Blake. Accepting that he was able to love was one thing; even accepting that he did, in fact, love an angel, was easy… but only as long as he kept it to himself. The shadow of the possibility of Aziraphale realising that Crowley was in love with him and joking about it was something different. Crowley was sweating again, but it was now a cold sweat accompanied by a dry throat and a sudden desire to go back to bed and not get up in the next two millennia.

After resisting the urge to go to sleep again, and then the temptation of changing to his snake form forever, Crowley decided that he was overthinking and being silly. He had not woken up completely yet, he thought. Aziraphale probably knew that Crowley loved him because angles can feel that in the air or something, but he would never laugh at anyone for that, not even at a demon. Probably there was no hidden intention behind the kind angel’s gift. He had just had a good laugh at a poor human’s interpretation of Heaven and Hell and wanted to share it with his friend.

While he thought and leafed absent-mindedly through the book, Crowley’s gaze landed on a line: “This Angel, who is now become a Devil, is my particular friend.” He imagined Aziraphale reading that line. What had he thought? Had he imagined himself as a demon? Crowley did, and the image fell somewhere between strange, funny, and, somehow, cute. Aziraphale had laughed, Crowley was sure, and he had done it in a low tone, as if to avoid calling the other angels’ attention and, probably, causing them to call him out on his behaviour, reading and enjoying such inappropriate stuff.

That was not the main reason why the angel had sent him the book, Crowley understood, as he read it. It reminded him of their conversations together. That was what the angel said in the letter, that he missed them. Crowley did, too. He missed the angel’s wise words, the flicker in his eyes when he talked passionately about books, his rosy cheeks when he had drunk a bit too much wine. He missed all of that and more. He imagined the angel again, reading in his bookshop, thinking of him, then closing the book and taking his pen and paper in an attempt to summon Crowley by his side. Now that Crowley really thought about it, everything made sense, and it was not as scary as he had thought. On the contrary, it filled his chest with something new and sweet.

With renewed strength and decision, the demon got up and walked towards his door, now clear. He had slept for almost a century and had too many things to learn, but none of them were in his mind at that moment. The only thing he wanted to do, the first person he wanted to see, was Aziraphale. And the first thing he was going to say was… Well, he would think about that while he walked towards that sweet shop that Aziraphale used to love if it was still open after almost one hundred years. And if it had closed, he would find another one, the best that he could find in London. He could not show up at the bookshop without at least a box of chocolates. It would be rude, after all the effort that the angel had put into his gift.


End file.
